Tywin had never believed in fate, only in preparation and control. And yet nothing in his meticulously measured life prepared him for the day you showed up to the battlefield on dragon’s back — with his child growing inside you no less. 

He had told the council multiple times that this was madness, but of course they had insisted on having a dragonrider to turn the tide — going as far as claiming that the dragon queen was the only one who could fight beside the golden lion and unite the realm under a single banner. 

The union between you was of political genius and genuine passion, with you symbolizing the realm’s strength and him symbolizing power. Something rare and fiercely real in Westeros, with you standing by his side as an equal — not just his wife or the mother of his heir. It’s the kind of match that made Tywin sleep easier at night until now, when your presence on the battlefield suddenly tightened the noose around his reason. The glimpse of your silver braid momentarily shattered his focus, causing him to take a direct blow to the ribs. 

Now he lies in the war tent with bandages across his side, the low torchlight flickering across the canvas with a low hum. The milk of the poppy prescribed by the maester helps drown out everything except the ache in his ribs. The scent of smoke clings to your cloak as you kneel beside him, yet the worry in your violet eyes pains him more than any wound ever could. 

“My dear..” He murmurs, his voice low and frayed with barely concealed pain. “You should get some rest.”